All Shall Fade
by JessieRose
Summary: [COMPLETE] Who was Denethor? Just another Steward to govern Gondor, in the stead of the King. Or was he?
1. Galdor

Disclaimer - I do not own the wonder which is Lord of the Rings.  
  
A/N This is my first Lord of the Rings fic, so be nice!! It's Denethor centric, as a lot of people left the cinema hating Denethor. But I believe him to be a truly tragic figure, not deserving hate but pity. This is his story.  
  
All Shall Fade.  
  
Prologue.  
  
Who was Denethor? Just another Steward to govern Gondor, in the stead of the King. Or was he? Denethor ruled during the War of Ring, he made the decisions which would untimely make or brake their victory.  
  
He was born in the year 2930, the son of Ecthelion. He grew a proud ruthless child, of little principles. His father taught him to be strong in battle, and stubborn in ruling. Did he take on board these principles, when he finally became the Steward at the age of 54? This is Denethor's Story.  
  
Chapter One. Galdor.  
  
Denethor was twenty one years of age when his life took a drastic turn for the worse. He had spent the previous years roaming the borders of Gondor, fighting away Sauron's minions, protecting the White City. Gondor was important to him, he loved the beautiful city, and would do anything to save it from attack. They kept their distance from Rohan, who provided neither aid nor assistance. Theoden sat on his throne, turning a blind eye to history, to the present and the future.  
  
And then when Denethor reached twenty one, after almost eight years of fighting experience, Sauron returned to Mordor.  
  
The shadow and threat grew, expanding it's boundaries. The orcs began fiercer, more determined, more organised. And all the while Sauron built up his defences, rebuilding his tower and his armies. He was taking over Middle Earth.  
  
"Finduilas, I beg of you to leave here." He said to his wife, kneeling before her. Her beauty was rarely out done. She had true grace about her, and was beloved by all. She was originally a lady of Dol Amroth, the daughter of Adrahil.  
  
"I cannot leave you and the boys." She told him. He stood up and kissed her.  
  
"I was both hoping and dreading that answer." He led her outside, where the rising smoke from Mordor could be seen for miles.  
  
"He will try to take Gondor."  
  
"You must call to Rohan." His wife pleaded. She gripped his hands with sadness.  
  
"Rohan?" Denethor exclaimed. "Rohan cannot help us, and nor would they. We shall defend our own city."  
  
"Do not die because you are scared of asking for aid." Her voice was soft and soothing.  
  
For all their arguments and harsh words, Denethor and Finduilas loved each other. There was space for no other in each of their hearts, except perhaps their sons Faramir and Boromir.  
  
Both were trained in the arts of war, though they competed shamelessly with each other. Sword fighting was a skill possessed greatly by Faramir, but he lacked judgement. Whereas Boromir was stubborn, and refused to back down once he had an idea planted in his head.  
  
"The shadow grows." Galdor said, as he came up beside them. Galdor was one of Denethor's closest friends, they had fought side by side against the orc scum that plagued their lands. They had grown up together, learning the arts of war in these dark times. "My Lady." He said, bowing his head towards Finduilas. "It has been growing for some time now." Denethor replied, not turning to look at his friend.  
  
"And we are the frontline troops."  
  
"Not yet, as I said it has been growing, I have been watching carefully." Denethor explained. "They are not coming to attack as of yet. His army grows larger every day. He makes new alliances. . ."  
  
"Then so should we."  
  
"Alliances? With whom?" Denethor asked sharply.  
  
Galdor sighed and shook his head. Denethor certainly was a stubborn man, who argued his point strongly. If he wanted to sit back and watch the Orcs take over, then it was up to him. Denethor claimed no creature, whether it be beast or man could breech the city walls of Minis Tirith.  
  
"But it will not stop them trying." Was always Galdor's response.  
  
He smiled glumly at Finduilas. "It's okay, Findulias, we shall not let the city fall."  
  
"I have every faith in you." The lady bowed and left the men alone. She despised their talk of war, but knew it was unavoidable. They argued throughout the day over the growing threat of Sauron. Denethor was a tall, powerful man, stern in his opinions, and ready to do anything for the city he loved. Galdor was more reserved, he kept his thoughts to himself.  
  
"How are your fine sons?" Galdor asked, as they returned inside to dine.  
  
"Boromir and Faramir are both well, they are starting their training soon. I have high hopes for Boromir. He shall fight Sauron."  
  
"If it comes to that." Galdor murmured, serenely.  
  
"Trust me, my friend. We shall live to see Sauron attack."  
  
Finduilas looked down as they passed. She desperately wished they lived in lighter times.  
  
And so their sad story progressed.  
  
They fought off the constant orc attacks, and tried to withdraw from the shadow that grew over them. The men of Gondor fought well, some fell in battle, many were injured. But as they died, young boys fresh from training stepped forward to take their place. And together they scoured the plains of Gondor in an attempt to flush it of the orc scum.  
  
In the meantime Ecthelion II, the steward of Gondor, died leaving the job of ruling to his son. Denethor was ready to take over, he embraced his responsibilities, and prayed now he was in control he could battle sufficiently against Mordor. He was to be the twenty sixth steward of Gondor, and had to compare with the twenty five strong leaders that had ruled before him. But it was said that Denethor was the strongest and noblest steward Gondor had seen for a long time.  
  
"He is at rest." Finduilas said, placing her soft hand on his shoulder.  
  
They stood by the tomb of Ecthelion II, his final resting place.  
  
"Are you ready to embrace your position, or will you back down?" Finduilas did not speak out loud, in fact her voice went straight into her husband's head.  
  
"I am ready, I have fought for Gondor all my life, now I shall rule it." His fist clenched, as he turned from his father. Her hand fell from his cold shoulder.  
  
"Do not make the mistakes your father made." She told him.  
  
"What do you mean?" He demanded.  
  
"Don't be so eager for victory, that you forget the most important thing. It is not far we go, but how we get there." She walked gracefully from the room, leaving Denethor to his thoughts.  
  
As she left, young Faramir, only five years old ran to her, and she gathered him up in her arms.  
  
He watched his wife as she stepped from the cold crypt. They had been married just eight years, and he could not imagine life without her presence. She seemed to light up his darkest moments, and could bring laughter and serenity when there was none.  
  
He was ready to become steward, and lead Gondor to victory. He would do it for his father, for his sons, and most importantly, for himself. 


	2. Finduilas

A/N Yay, next chapter. I still don't own Lord of the Rings.  
  
Chapter Two. Finduilas.  
  
"Denethor!" The shouts rang out over the city. One of the guards pushed open the door to the great hall, and two men stepped inside. They bowed before their steward, with grim expressions on their faces. One was limping from a leg wound.  
  
Denethor looked up from his golden plate. He could no longer eat in peace, or with his beloved wife. Findulias was suffering greatly. She became dreadfully ill, and the general feeling was that she craved for the South, for the sea that she loved.  
  
"Back so soon?" Denethor remarked, coldly.  
  
He had sent a group of twenty men to get as close to Mordor as possible. He wanted an idea of Sauron's army, and the numbers it held. He was hoping rather then expecting good news.  
  
The man limping shifted uncomfortably. He got to the point quickly, there was no point harbouring the truth. "I'm sorry, but Galdor fell."  
  
Denethor's face dropped suddenly. They brought forward the broken body of his life long friend, his armour was pierced with arrows, and his sword stained with blood. Denethor laid his hand on the man's cheek. He kneeled there for several minutes.  
  
Finduilas stepped into the hall and gasped at the sight of Galdor's body. The power of death seemed to overtake her, and her already weak body felt faint as Denethor grabbed her. They embraced together, and she burrowed her face deep in his chest and closed her eyes tight against the sight of Galdor, as he lay dead on the floor. Death had entered the great hall of Minis Tirith. And it was there to stay.  
  
Meanwhile in the courtyard, Boromir swung his light weight sword through the air, in graceful fashion. "I have just killed an orc." He told his brother. Faramir watched distastefully, his blade hanging loosely in his hand.  
  
"And another one!" The child cried, causing his brother to step back, as Boromir pounced onto the air.  
  
"Boromir!" Faramir protested loudly.  
  
"Just 'cause you can't fight as well as me." He claimed.  
  
Faramir sighed. It wouldn't matter if he was the best fighter in the whole of Middle Earth, their father would still prefer Boromir. He was the louder and more confident of the two, and tended to get what he wanted. In fact it was a rare occasion when his father did not bestow his wishes on him. Finduilas saw this, and paid extra special attention to the forgotten child. But the love and attentions of a mother do not replace those of a father.  
  
So from an early age, Faramir thrived on a desire to prove himself. He held up his sword, and swung it gently through the air. It felt light in his hands, and seemed to blend with his arm. He could swing it naturally, without much practise. And quickly got the hang of it. But no matter how good he was at fighting, Boromir could always beat him.  
  
He was seven years old, when the news of Galdor's death reached his young ears. He felt it much heavier then his brother.  
  
"What is wrong?"  
  
Faramir shrugged. "Nothing." He threw down his sword, and wandered inside. He crept to his mother's chambers where she lay, resting. He clambered up on to the bed, and lay against her. She played with his short hair, running her fingers through it, trying to brush out the knots.  
  
"Galdor is dead." He said softly.  
  
Her grip on his hair tightened. "He is at rest now, we must not grieve for him." She said, misunderstanding her son's sentiments.  
  
"It's not that." Faramir explained. "Why did he die?"  
  
"He died fighting." She said.  
  
"An orc?"  
  
"Not just an orc, an army of orcs." Finduilas told him, still stroking his head.  
  
"Armies have a leader." The seven year old said, cuddling up to his mother.  
  
She nodded. "Yes, yes they do." She sighed. "There is a Dark Lord, hiding deep inside his tower. He controls the orcs." Finduilas told her son. "You must not grieve for Galdor. . ."  
  
"It's not that." The child insisted.  
  
"Then what my child? What is it?"  
  
"Father."  
  
"Denethor? What is wrong?" She asked pulling his eyes level with hers.  
  
"What if he goes to fight?"  
  
She looked away. "Your father is the steward, he cannot help it, it is who he was born to be. He cannot change it, just as Boromir cannot."  
  
"What if he doesn't come back?"  
  
She held her son close to her. "Then we shall be here for each other." She whispered into his ear. "These are dark times, my child. Dark days. If we live to see another dawn we are lucky." She saw no point in lying to the young boy, it would do him no favours to have a screen pulled over his innocent eyes. The times were dark, and Faramir had to accept that.  
  
Faramir did not understood, but he hung to the idea of luck for a long time after that conversation. It was all that was left in a world of shadows.  
  
After that day Finduilas took a turn for the worse. She stayed in bed throughout the day, only appearing at night. Her sons were constantly by her side, and Denethor wondered the city, depressed and numb to all. He hardly noticed when only half of his army returned.  
  
Then it happened. Four years after becoming the steward of Gondor, his beloved wife died. 


	3. Juindo

A/N I'd just like to say thanks to my reviewers. Glad you like my story, and that someone agrees with me about Denethor. Anyway here is the next chapter.  
  
Chapter Three. Juindo  
  
Finduilas's death sent everyone into shock. She had been a gentle woman, who would not hurt a single creature. Denethor had his world ripped apart in a matter of four years. He had lost his father, and had the responsibilities of Gondor in the height of war thrown on to his weak shoulders. He could not bear the weight. And then his friend, his true friend, Galdor, his most loyal and caring companion, had succumbed to the evils of battle. He fell fighting for his steward.  
  
After all the pain he went through, seeing the broken body of his friend, and his peaceful father being laid to rest, the death of his wife was the hardest. He was almost glad his father had not lived to see Gondor as it fought like water against rock. He was glad his father did not have to grieve for Findulias, or see such a young person cut down in their prime. But such is the nature of war.  
  
Boromir and Faramir stood side by side. Faramir was crying, whereas his brother was determined not to leak a tear. It seemed important to the nine year old boy to stay strong in front of his father. It was always appearances with Boromir.  
  
Faramir sobbed quietly to himself, shocked and saddened by his brother's apparent look of remorse.  
  
"How can you not be sad?" He demanded.  
  
Boromir turned to him. "Being sad will not bring her back."  
  
Faramir did not follow this line of reasoning, but it sounded like something Findulias would have said. Of course, she had told them that being sad about Galdor would not bring him back.  
  
"There is a difference between being sad and grieving for someone." She told her sons.  
  
Denethor walked through the middle of them, without so much as a glance at his sons. Faramir turned and ran, whereas his brother stood his ground.  
  
The tragic demise of Finduilas sent Denethor into a rage, he was angry and bitter against the world that snatched away those he loved. And in light of these ill dark feelings he turned to the Plantir for comfort.  
  
He held out the black orb before him, staring into it's deep black depths.  
  
"Father?"  
  
He jumped at the sound of his son's voice.  
  
"Go form here, Boromir." He said, without even turning around.  
  
"Father?" Boromir repeated.  
  
"Go!" Denethor shouted.  
  
The boy nodded and left, as he reached the door he looked back to see his father pouring over a black stone, weeping softly as he passed his hand over the white mist.  
  
In his hands Denethor held one of the seven great Seeing Stones, which enabled the user to see great distances away and communicate with others. They did not come from Middle Earth, they were brought from Númenor by Elendil. Three of the stones went North, and three to Gondor. But the chief one was at Osgiliath.  
  
Denethor stared into the stone, almost speaking into it, spreading his worries through his finger tips into the never ending blackness.  
  
Two of the other stones were in the possession of Sauron and Saruman. As Denethor sat there, consumed by his grief, he spoke to the Plantir. And it spoke back. Sauron spoke back. The Dark Lord poisoned his mind, every time Denethor glanced inside the beautiful but deadly orb, Sauron stole more of his mind. He fed him lies and deceit, mixed with horrific battle scenes, that would scare even the noblest of men.  
  
The Plantir showed the White City falling before his ageing eyes, he saw the death of his beloved sons, the last of his family. His men slaves to the Lord's will.  
  
"The stone tells the future." He muttered to himself, as the harsh words played through his dark mind. And as the weeks and months went on, Denethor fell further into the Dark Lord's clutches. He almost became addicted to the power of the Plantir, and what it showed him. His heart turned black with the pain and horror that haunted it.  
  
But he could not stop looking into the Plantir. The death of Findulias had pushed him over the edge, and the only comfort he could derive was from his Seeing Stone. It gave him power and knowledge above the others, he the steward knew what was going to happen. He rarely left his quarters, and Boromir found himself taking over his father's duty, directing the attacks against Mordor. Not that there were many, it was the general agreement to let the enemy attack first.  
  
Boromir turned a blind eye to his father's behaviour, he did not interfere with it. However his brother could not be so complacent.  
  
Years after that day, as Denethor continued to look into his stone, and Boromir had almost become steward. Faramir was visited by a dream. That night Faramir had trouble sleeping. Eventually he fell into a fitful doze. And as he was sleeping, a vision visited in his mind.  
  
"Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
  
In Imladris it dwells;  
  
There shall be counsels taken  
  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
  
There shall be shown a token  
  
That Doom is near at hand,  
  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."  
  
"The sky in the east grew dark, but there was light in the west, and I heard a voice telling me of the verse. Do you know what it means?" Faramir asked, as he told his brother of his dream the next morning.  
  
Boromir was deep in thought. "Isildur's Bane? That can only be referring to one thing. The One Ring."  
  
Faramir looked at him in surprise. "The One Ring? Sauron's missing Ring?"  
  
Boromir nodded slowly. "Imladris." He said, softly to himself. "The blade that was broken?" He asked himself. Then suddenly it came to him. "Of course, the sword that cut the Ring!"  
  
"What are you planning?" At that moment the two of them entered the hall.  
  
They caught their father staring over the black orb. He quickly placed a blanket over it and turned to face them. "What do you want?" He demanded.  
  
"Do you know what that is?" Faramir protested, he grabbed Boromir's sleeve to stop him as they left the hall. "I know perfectly well what it is." He hissed. "Ah, Juindo, news from the South?" He asked, catching the horse's reigns. A young rider jumped off.  
  
"No news of the South ,Sir." Juindo replied, taking his horse.  
  
"It is not some crystal ball, it is one of the seven." Faramir continued.  
  
Boromir turned and walked away with Juindo.  
  
"It's a Plantir." Faramir cried, but no one was listening.  
  
"Good. See I shall be leaving soon. I have to travel to Rivendell."  
  
"The elves, my Lord?"  
  
Boromir nodded. "My father is not well enough to make such a journey." Boromir replied quickly. "No I shall go myself, see what the elves have to say for themselves." 


	4. Boromir

A/N Just a short chapter this time. Please review if anyone is reading this. Thanks. ^_^  
  
Chapter Four. Boromir.  
  
"Father?" Boromir asked, he carefully stepped up to his father's table. "Father?"  
  
Denethor slowly looked up into the face of his son. "Boromir." He said, half heartedly.  
  
He sat on his grand throne in the Great Hall, watching the world crumble around him. The fire that had once burnt so strongly inside him was smouldering in ashes. His heart was black with constant use of the Plantir. They had lost before the battle even begun. They were dead before there were born. There was no hope left.  
  
"Father, Lord Elrond of Rivendell is holding a meeting, leaders from all over Middle Earth are attending. They shall discuss the threat of Sauron." Boromir told him.  
  
Denethor shook his head ever so slightly. "There is no hope left."  
  
"No hope?" Boromir exclaimed. "Why if I go to Rivendell, I'm sure I could make alliances, we could fight this threat together, with Gondor leading the way. We need not be alone."  
  
"Alliances? Armies?" Denethor scorned. "We could not win if every man, woman and child were to fight."  
  
"What of the elves?"  
  
"They have no interest in the world of men any more."  
  
"It is still their world!" Boromir protested. "I shall go, I shall get help, Gondor shall not fall needlessly."  
  
Denethor stared straight into his eyes. "There is no hope left. It is too late."  
  
"It's never too late." He leaned forward and whispered in his father's ear. "I have heard a rumour that the One Ring has been found at last."  
  
Denethor's dull, tragic filled eyes lit up instantly. "The One Ring?" He breathed.  
  
Boromir nodded.  
  
"It is a powerful weapon, so powerful, that if we had it we could defeat Sauron with an army of ten let alone ten thousand." Denethor said, almost to himself.  
  
Boromir nodded, again. "I shall go to Rivendell, and return with the One Ring."  
  
Denethor almost smiled. "If you do this, you truly are my son."  
  
Boromir patted him on the shoulder. "I leave at once."  
  
"And your brother?"  
  
"I travel alone. I suggest you send Faramir and the Rangers of Ithilien to Osgilith, they can protect our lands there." Boromir said.  
  
Denethor nodded. "Fare thee well, Boromir."  
  
And so on that day, Boromir set off to Rivendell, to take the Ring of Power, and form alliances with those he could. He promised to bring aid to the struggling Gondor and alleviate his brother's responsibilities the moment he returned. At the same time Faramir, Mablung, Damrod and the other Rangers set out on their journey to Osgilith.  
  
Denethor felt sad watching his sons depart, it was strange to feel human emotions again. He had been under the spell of the Plantir for so long, it was almost like he was breaking free. Well, for a short time. But he soon returned to his orb of misery.  
  
It seemed such along time until he heard from Boromir again. Every time he heard the noise of hooves in the courtyard he would listen to the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and prayer it was his son. But it was messenger, runner, man, spy, and countless others, but never dearest Boromir.  
  
He even looked for Faramir's return, but got neither news nor his son. It was a sad year for the steward as he wasted away in his hall. His heart split between his children, willing them to return home. And then it was brought to him. By none other then Juindo. He placed it in the Steward's hands, who stared at it blankly. It was two halves of the beautiful horn of Gondor, Boromir's horn. 


	5. Gandalf The White

A/N Thanks for all the reviews so far. Hope you like the next chapter!! ^_^  
  
Chapter Five. Gandalf The White.  
  
The pain of losing his wife was still fresh in his heart, and the death of his son almost killed him. Denethor grieved bitterly for Boromir. He had admired his eldest son's fighting spirit, and the flame that burnt inside him. He held the horn dejectedly in his hands, staring at the stone floor. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was a great steward of Gondor, walking down the path his forefathers had carefully carved. The responsibilities weighed heavily on his weary shoulders, and he had no time to grieve as he should.  
  
"My Lord, please do not despair, Faramir is still alive. He has sent message from. . ." His men tried to cheer his spirits.  
  
"My son is dead." Was Denethor's hissing response.  
  
At that point the great doors were opened, and the light glared in, blinding the occupants. In the doorway stood the mighty Gandalf the White, and by his side, a slightly nervous halfling.  
  
"Hail Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor. I come with tidings in this dark hour, and with counsel." Gandalf said, forcing the steward to look up into his face. Denethor stared with hatred at the white wizard. His cloak was filthy at the bottom, and the hobbit looked tired from much riding. And they were here to lecture him, to rule him, to usurp him.  
  
"Maybe you have come to tell me why my son is dead." Denethor said, in a low voice. As he fingered the beautiful, broken horn. He saw the man before him as an evil being, worse then Sauron himself, Gandalf had tricked him, lured his son away and travelled with those who claimed the Lordship over Gondor, over his lands.  
  
Gandalf looked with some alarm at the object. He had not been expecting this. He cleared his throat slightly and was about to speak, when Pippin took over.  
  
"Boromir died to save us." He said, softly. "My kinsman and me. He fell defending us from many foes. And that it was, in service of your son's death I offer myself to Gondor." Pippin said, dropping down onto his knee.  
  
Denethor surveyed the halfling with distaste. What could one so small, possibly do against the will of the Dark Lord?  
  
"Get up." Gandalf said, gruffly.  
  
Pippin jumped to his feet.  
  
"The threat is growing Theoden, and Sauron is coming. Coming to consume Gondor, and the rest of Middle Earth. He intends to destroy the world of men." Gandalf told him. "If you call. . ."  
  
"Do not barge into my halls, Gandalf the grey, and expect me to heed your council, the council of a traitor." Denethor spat.  
  
"My Lord, there will be a time to grieve for Boromir. But it is not now. War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep! As steward, you are charged with the defence of this city! Where are Gondor's armies? You still have friends. You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. Light the beacons." Gandalf urged him.  
  
"You think you are wise, Mithrandir, yet for all your subtleties you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know. With your left hand you would use me as a shield against Mordor, and with your right you would seek to supplant me! I know who rides with Théoden of Rohan. Oh yes! Word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I tell you now I will not bow to this Ranger from the North, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship." Denethor snarled.  
  
"Steward, it is not up to you to deny the Return of the King." Gandalf boomed. He turned swiftly and marched out, Pippin running to keep up by his side.  
  
Denethor stood up abruptly. "Gondor is mine, and no other's." He yelled. Gandalf turned and left pulling the little hobbit with him.  
  
He paced the room angrily. Gandalf had disturbed him, He picked up the horn and threw it angrily at the stone wall. It fell shattered to the floor.  
  
Gandalf and Pippin stood in their room. Pippin was admiring his armour, that worn by the guards of Citadel.  
  
"It's so quiet."  
  
"It's the breath before the plunge." Gandalf said with a slight shake of his head.  
  
Pippin sighed, as he went to stand beside Gandalf.  
  
"We must call for Rohan's aid." Gandalf said, resolutely, almost to himself.  
  
"But Denethor does not wish for Theoden to come."  
  
Gandalf shook his head. "Denethor is a proud man, he does not ask because he suspects Theoden would not come."  
  
"But he would!" Pippin said quickly.  
  
Gandalf nodded. "Indeed he would. But Denethor would lose face if he asks for help that does not come."  
  
Pippin sighed. "There is so much I don't understand." They stood together on the balcony staring out across the world.  
  
The fire and smoke rose from Mordor, turning the sky black. Pippin watched dejectedly, resting his chin on the balcony, as he watched. He desperately missed Merry by his side, and now he had joined Denethor he would have to fight. The very idea chilled him inside, and his heart craved the simplicities of the Shire, once more.  
  
"Try and understand it from Denethor's position." Gandalf told the young hobbit. "He has been sitting long in the steward's chair, he witnesses the city he loves toppling before him. His wife and son die tragically before their time. The only thing he has left is Gondor. And now he hears a rumour of one trying to take it from him."  
  
"Aragorn?"  
  
Gandalf nodded. "Aragorn."  
  
"But surely Aragorn is the rightful King?"  
  
"He turned from that path a long time ago. It will be hard for both parties to return. But we need someone strong who can unite the world of men."  
  
"Will there be a battle Gandalf?"  
  
The wise wizard turned to face his small companion.  
  
"I don't want to fight, I don't want to go to war, but standing on the edge of one I can't escape is even worse." Pippin exclaimed. "Is there any hope Gandalf, for Frodo and Sam?"  
  
Gandalf shook his head. "There never was much hope." Pippin turned to him in surprise. He had been expecting or rather wishing for an encouraging answer, one that said the Ring was close to be destroyed in the depths of Mount Doom.  
  
"Just a fool's hope." Gandalf said with a grim smile. "Our Enemy is ready, his full strength gathered. Not only Orcs, but Men as well. Legions of Haradrim from the south. Mercenaries from the coast. All will answer Mordor's call. This will be the end of Gondor as we know it. Here the hammer-stroke will fall the hardest. If the river is taken, if the garrison at Osgiliath falls, the last defence of this city will be gone."  
  
"But we have the White Wizard, that must count for something. Gandalf?" Pippin asked.  
  
Gandalf shook his head. His thoughts were full of the battle that was yet to come. "Sauron still has to release his deadliest weapon. The Witch-king of Angmar." He turned to the small hobbit that stood beside him, and his heart filled with dread. "It's time again Pippin, for one of the Shire to show their worth. Do not fail me." 


	6. Pippin

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A/N *sob* I didn't get a single review for my last chapter!! Come on guys I spent a lot of time on this, surely I deserve a couple of reviews!!?? Woah!! I sound SO pathetic. . .just for the record I do have a life!! Anyway review, good or bad. Thanks. 

All Shall Fade. 

Chapter Six. Pippin. 

Faramir saw the approach of the orc armies, it filled his heart with dread. A quiet cry rang out, and the soldiers were getting into position. Some had only just been woken and had no time to don proper armour. They scurried to the coast, hiding by the walls, grasping their spears, waiting for the attack. Orders were given in hushed voices. 

A hideous orc leader was in the first boat. "Faster!" He called to those rowing. 

Faramir pushed himself further against the wall, keeping out of sight. He slowly drew his sword, ready to fight. And then the first boats reached the shore. 

The ramps were thrown across, and the orcs ran onto the land. Faramir took a deep breathe, and he charged, his men beside him.

Meanwhile Pippin climbed up the tower, and sneaked past the guards. He clambered to the top of the wood pile, and held the lantern above his head. The wood was covered with oil, which would burn quickly. When this was lit, the men at the next one would light theirs. And the message would pass through the hillside, through the country, across the world to Rohan. 

He stared resolutely out across Minis Tirith. 

"This is for you Merry." He said, as he dropped the lantern. The wood caught fire instantly, and began to spread. The signal roared up into the sky. And just over the horizon Pippin saw another beacon alight. Now there was no stopping the message. He hopped down in jubilation. 

The beacons had been lit. And now the question was; would Rohan answer? Would Theoden remember the old alliances, or would he turn and run? Would he answer? 

Gandalf looked up. "Amon Dîn..."

One of the guards shouted, "The beacon! The beacon of Amon Dîn is lit!"

Denethor saw them glowing from his window. He sneered softly. "Will you answer Theoden? Will you answer?" He shook his head with a sigh, still holding his dear son's horn. 

"Hope is kindled." Gandalf muttered. 

The fearsome battle of Osgilith still reigned. The men and orcs were locked in a deadly battle. The men were fed with determination. They couldn't give Osgilith away, they couldn't let it fall. But the orc numbers were too great, and no matter how many they killed, there were always more to take the dead's place. 

Faramir fought strongly. He ran through the arch as they chased him. He managed to duck out of the way as the archers released a volley of arrows. 

"We cannot hold them. The city is lost." Mandril said. 

Faramir looked round in despair. They had failed. "Tell the Men to break cover. We ride for Minas Tirith." He said, resigned. 

As they were riding away, Mandril fell, and the orcs gathered round him. Faramir looked back in agony. It hurt him to leave his friend, but noir could he leave his men. He led them through the battle scene as they ran from the Nazgul and their fellbeasts. As they rode fiercely the Nazgul chased them. Gandalf emerged from Minis Tirith. 

****

"Mithrandir! They broke through our defences. They've taken the bridge and the west bank. Battalions of Orcs are crossing the river." Faramir said, painfully. 

"It is as the Lord Denethor predicted! Long has he foreseen this doom!" One man yelled. Yes indeed Denethor had seen this doom. The palantír had showed him he could not win, the palantír showed him the death of all men.

"Foreseen and done nothing!" Gandalf said, angrily. 

And then Faramir spotted Pippin. 

"This is not the first halfling to cross your path, Faramir?"

Pippin brightened instantly. "You've seen Frodo and Sam!"

Faramir nodded. "In Ithilien, not two days ago."

It was that day Pippin began part of the guards. He took the oath and kissed the ring that sat proudly on the finger of Denethor.

"Fealty with love, valour with honour disloyalty with vengeance." He stared towards Faramir, with a cruel expression on his face. 

"I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defences. Defences that your brother long held intact." He said, to his son. 

Faramir stared at him. "What would you have me do?" He demanded.

"I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken." Denethor said, angrily.

"My Lord, Osgilith is overrun." 

Denethor sighed. "Much must be risked in these dark times. I just wish I had a captain strong enough to fight?"

Faramir looked down. "You wish now our places had been swapped. That is I should have died and Boromir lived."

"Yes, I wish that!" Denethor admitted, coldly. 

Denethor drank from a goblet, ignoring his son, as tears began to form in Faramir's eyes. 

"Since you have been robbed of Bormir, I shall do what I can in his stead." 

Pippin watched in shock as Faramir limped to the door. He turned back. "If I should return, think better of me father."

"That will depend on the manner of your return." Denethor snarled. 

Faramir left the room, never before had he craved his mother's touch as much as he did now. The loss of Findulias had turned Denethor from a good, strong leader, to a cold, cynical man. Findulias's warmth no longer spread over Minis Tirith. She was lost forever, and so was Denethor. In truth, he had died with her that day. 

"Your father's will has turned to madness! Do not throw away your life so rashly!" Gandalf advised him, as Faramir prepared to leave. 

Faramir stared at him. "My allegiance is with my father. He is right we shouldn't have abandoned the defences." 

The people of Minis Tirith watched sadly, as Faramir and his sad army rode away, back to Osgilith. 

"Your father loves you, Faramir! He will remember it before the end." Gandalf called.


	7. Faramir

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A/N Second to last chapter, and definitely my favourite. I loved it in the film when Pippin sang. Anyway please review! 

Chapter Seven. ~ Faramir. 

That evening, Denethor was eating at his table, as usual. Pippin was by his side. 

"Can you sing, master hobbit?"

Pippin's eyes lit up, as he remembered the last night in the Green Dragon, as he and Merry sang and danced on the tables, whilst Rosie laughed from behind the bar. They had been good times. He nodded. "I can sing."

"Then sing me a song."

Pippin shook his head. "I know no songs fit for grand halls, or evil times." 

"And why wouldn't your songs be fit for my hall?" Denethor demanded. 

Pippin looked down.

"Sing me a song." Denethor persisted. 

Pippin thought for a moment, as though trying to find the words. He opened his mouth and began to sing. 

"Home is behind, the world ahead, 

__

Faramir rides through the plains of Gondor. His men follow him, with grim determination. He is doing this for his father. He rides to Osgilith, to death. He does it for his father. Maybe he can reawake some light in the black–hearted man. 

"And there are many paths to tread. 

__

Frodo and Sam stare up at the 'step'. It is steep and jagged, and looks nearly impossible to climb. Gollum jumps ahead of them, urging them to follow him. Sam doesn't trust him, but he follows Mister Frodo. He will always follow Mister Frodo. 

Through shadow, to the edge of night, 

__

The riders camp beneath the shadow of the mountain. As Aragorn stares into the 'door'. They have only six thousand men under their command, it is not enough to put a dent in Sauron's army. The horsea are restless, the men weary. This is their one chance of success. Through the mountain. 

Until the stars are all alight. 

__

The soldiers under the lead of Faramir ride fiercely, resolutely, but there will no dawn for them. They follow Faramir, as he follows his father's madness, and Findulias's sweet voice inside his head. 

  
Mist and shadow, cloud and shade, 

__

Merry dons his armour and playfully swings his sword. The men laugh, and Lady Ewoyen chides them. They should no doubt young Merry's strength. He should be able to fight for those he loves. And so Merry runs along in the encampment. . .

All shall fade! All shall fade ..."

__

Sam stands behind Frodo to catch him should he fall back. But no one stands behind Sam as they struggled up the stair. And each step Sam takes, he thinks of it as a step, a reach, a handhold closer to the Shire. Closer to home. 

Pippin sang beautifully. The images flashed through his head, as the words exited his mouth. He couldn't bear to face Denethor, as he thought of Faramir riding his way to death, or Frodo climbing the side of Mount Doom. And then there was Aragorn, urging the men to fight , calculating the odds of their success. Pippin could hold back his tears any more, he screwed up his eyes and cried. Not for himself, but for his companions, and those he had lost along the way.


	8. Denethor

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A/N okay, here is my last chapter. PLEASE review, and tell me what you think…

Chapter Eight. Denethor 

  
The men of Gondor were positioned around the walls, and on the gate. They were ready for war, with their arrows and swords held in their sweaty hands. 

"Open the gate!" The order went up, and Faramir was brought inside. Two men carried him up and lay his beside the white tree. Denethor, having heard the shout, came running out. 

"Faramir! Say not that he has fallen." He cried.

"They were outnumbered. None survived." 

"My sons are spent, killed by the hand of the enemy. My line has come to an end."

Pippin ran to his side, and carefully placed his hand on Faramir's brow. "He's alive." He said, with a joyous smile, stretching across his face. "My Lord, he's alive!" 

"The House of the Stewards has fallen." Denethor said, not hearing Pippin's joyous remarks.

"He needs medicine." The hobbit said, urgently. 

Denethor got up, and stumbled absently towards the wall. 

Pippin tried desperately to get his attention. "My Lord." He said, wistfully. Denethor reached the wall, and stared out across at the massive army that was about to breach the walls. He gave a soft moan of misery. What was left of his mind broke in that moment. His life had been torn with tragedy, the Palantir had poisoned his thoughts and turned his against him self. And now he was faced with Sauron's army, the whole of Mordor had been emptied. And Gondor had little defences or men. 

"Rohan has deserted us!" He yelled. "Théoden's betrayed me. Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for your lives!" He shouted to his men. 

They looked around uncertain of what to do. Whether or not to obey their steward. Gandalf whacked 

Denethor in the head with his staff, and shouted his own orders to the men. They returned to their posts, ready to fight. 

There was a scream as part of the wall crumbled. 

"This is no place for you Pippin, go back inside!" Gandalf shouted to the halfling. 

Pippin wondered into the courtyard, and saw Denethor carrying a lighted torch. Behind him his guards followed carrying the unconscious Faramir. Denethor pushed opened the doors to the House of Stewards and walked in. 

Denethor stared around. "No tomb for Denethor and Faramir. No long, slow, sleep of death embalmed. 

We shall burn, like the heathen kings of old." The madness was in his voice. He thought the end had come. "Bring wood and oil!" He ordered. "The house of his spirit crumbles. He is burning. Already burning."

Pippin ran up to pyre, and started pulling away the wood. "He's not dead! He's not dead!" He screamed, hysterically.

Denethor grabbed Pippin away and threw him out of the doors.

Pippin hammered on the door in panic. Denethor's mind had gone so far now, that he no longer listened to reason, or noticed his son twitching slightly as the oil was poured over him. Pippin took one last look at the door before scurrying off to find Gandalf. He had to stop Denethor killing his son. 

"Gandalf! Gandalf!" He shouted, running down the walls, ducking as the arrows soured over his head. 

He was pushed this and way and that as the Gondorian soldiers struggled to protect their city. 

"Set a fir in our flesh!" Denethor yelled. He stood on the pyre arms outstretched, like a martyr. 

Faramir lay at his feet, as the guards approached slowly brandishing their torches. He looked down at his son, and his strength failed him. His heart quaked as he thought of his darling, sweet Findulias, so gentle in her nature. She had cared for Faramir as he could not. His son moved ever so slightly but 

Denethor's eyes were blinded by evil. The Palantir tugged on his heart, long since he had stopped using it, and yet it was still consuming him. He could hear the distant cries of pain and suffering, the crashes as Minis Tirth fell beneath the enemy. There was no hope left. No chance. He, Denethor, the twenty sixth and last Steward of Gondor would not die by an enemy blade. He would die here, like the King's of old, beside his son. 

As the guards were about to light the pyre, the doors crashed open, and Gandalf and Pippin both riding Shadowfax appeared in the doorway. 

"Stop this madness." Gandalf yelled. 

The guards stepped back, but Denethor reached down and snatched one of the torches. He stared defensively at Gandalf. And for that split second when their eyes met, the white Wizard saw right in his soul. It wasn't Denethor any more. It wasn't Denethor with the torch in his hand, covered in oil. He use to be tall, proud and valiant, but heavy losses had turned his heart, and the will of Sauron had taken over. He truly believed his son to be dead, he refused to listen to the wisdom of Gandalf, after all the wizard was planning to supplant him on the throne of Gondor. Rohan had abandoned him, and the enemy were at the doors of city, they may even have breached it. He would not die by their hands. It was his last act in this world, and he would not die by them. 

He stared down at the form of his son, and thought of Boromir. He had lost Boromir. He would not lose his youngest son. And he cast the torch down on to the pyre. The oil caught quickly, and the wood began to burn. 

Gandalf knocked Denethor off with his spear, and Pippin jumped down into the fire to save Faramir. 

He pushed him out, and began batting the flames from his clothes. Denethor scrambled up from the floor. He looked down on Pippin, and saw him as a murderer and a traitor. The halfling was trying to take his son away from him. He lunged at Pippin, and knocked him away from Faramir. 

"No! You will not take my son away from me!" Denethor shouted. 

Gandalf turned at the shouts of Pippin, Shadowfax reared up and kicked Denethor into the flames. Pippin scrambled up, hurriedly. 

Denethor twisted in agony as the fire claimed his body, he peered through the orange flames and caught sight of his weak son. And as he glanced upon Faramir's war beaten face, his eyes flickered ever so slightly, and then opened. 

"Faramir. . ." He said, softening. His son was still alive. Love gushed into his heart once more, a love he had not felt since the death of his fair wife, since he had glanced upon the evil depths of the Plantir. 

He wanted to reach out and touch his son, reassure him. . .care for him. . .and in those last few seconds, his eyes, which had been closed for so long, opened, and he saw the world. And then the fire took control. It burnt into his body, with a searing ferrous pain, but it was nothing compared to what he had suffered during his life. 

And in his last moment he leaped from the pyre, and ran ablaze with flames from the House of Stewards, and over the edge of Minis Tirith. 

So to answer the question. No, Denethor was not just another Steward to govern Gondor. He was tragic figure, who loved his family in the only way he knew how. He death was proud and valiant, truly worth remembering. 

Gandalf watched sadly, as Pippin knelt beside Faramir. "And so passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion."


End file.
